Chapter 7: Two Fronts at Once
My director's name was Carol Huang.
She had hired me three years ago, passed over two other candidates to do it, and had never once given me a reason to doubt her.
She was standing by the window when I walked into her office.
She didn't sit down right away.
"Close the door," she said.
I closed it.
"Sit down, Chloe."
I sat.
She finally turned from the window.
She had a printed email in her hand.
She set it on the desk between us, face up.
It was an anonymous tip.
Sent to the company's general ethics inbox at 11pm the previous night.
It claimed that three of the professional references on my original employment portfolio had been fabricated — names, contact details, and recommendation letters all falsified.
I read it without touching it.
"I want to hear from you directly," Carol said.
"Before I do anything else.
Before HR gets involved."
"My references were real," I said.
"I can provide contact information for all three, original correspondence, everything."
"Then why would someone send this?"
I looked up from the paper.
"Carol, I need to tell you something.
And I need you to listen to the whole thing before you respond."
She sat down.
She folded her hands on the desk.
She waited.
I told her.
Not everything — not the full ninety-nine, not Liam's name — but enough.
I told her about Brendan, about Scarlett, about the coordinated campaign.
I told her that the same people who had sent this tip were preparing to file a false academic fraud complaint with my university's ethics board, and that I was working with an attorney.
When I finished, Carol was quiet for a long moment.
"How long has this been happening?" she said.
"Three years."
She looked at the email on the desk.
Then she looked at me.
"I owe you an apology," she said.
I frowned.
"For what?"
"About seven months ago, I received an anonymous call suggesting you were difficult to work with and had inflated your performance metrics on an internal report." She paused.
"I didn't act on it.
It felt thin.
But I should have told you."
Number sixty-seven.
The studio contract.
The six weeks I had stopped auditioning.
It had reached further than I had known.
"You didn't tell me," I said carefully.
"No.
I'm sorry." She picked up the printed email and turned it over so the text faced down.
"What do you need from me?"
"I need you to not act on this tip until I give you the go-ahead from my attorney.
And I need you to keep this conversation between us for now."
"Done." She stood.
"And Chloe — your references.
I'm going to verify them myself, today, because I want the record to be clean.
But I'm telling you now, before I pick up the phone, that I already know what I'm going to find."
I stood up.
My legs were steadier than I expected.
"Thank you, Carol."
"Don't thank me." She looked at the overturned email.
"Whoever did this made one mistake.
They aimed at someone I hired myself." She moved toward the door.
"I don't lose those bets."
I left her office and went straight to the restroom at the end of the hall.
I ran cold water over my wrists and looked at myself in the mirror.
Ninety-seven.
My mother.
Ninety-eight.
My career.
And ninety-nine — the formal complaint, the fabricated documents, the attorney Scarlett had already engaged — was still coming.
I dried my hands, walked back to my desk, and called Diana.
"Ninety-eight already landed," I said.
"My director has it.
She's holding."
"Good.
That's actually good." Diana's voice was controlled.
"It means they're moving on schedule, which means they haven't panicked yet.
Chloe, I need to tell you something.
I made contact yesterday with one of the judges from the competition.
The one I believe was not paid."
I held very still.
"And?"
"She's willing to talk.
Possibly willing to make a formal statement." A pause.
"But she wants to meet you first.
In person."
"When?"
"Tonight, if you can."
I looked at the clock on my computer screen.
It was 11:40 in the morning.
"Send me the address," I said.
My phone buzzed on the desk as I was reaching for my coat.
It was Brendan.
*"Spoke to Scarlett.
She'd love to meet.
Are you free Friday?"*
I read it twice.
He was still running the play.
He still didn't know the board had already changed.
I put on my coat, picked up my bag, and typed back.
May you like
*"Friday is perfect."*
Then I walked out to meet a woman who might be the final piece of everything.
